


Full Immunity

by OnYourMark



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnYourMark/pseuds/OnYourMark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven times Peter laid down his badge for Neal Caffrey. Or, from another angle, seven times Neal confessed to Peter Burke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Immunity

The first time it happened -- well, you know that story.

\---

The second time it happened, they were already at Neal's place, working on files at the dining-room table. Some other team's op had gone badly and Hughes had spent most of the afternoon fuming, which made the office unpleasant for his agents and downright perilous for their resident felon. When Neal quietly suggested that they might spend the last few hours of their day more productively at his place, Peter hadn't said no.

"Pass me the Bartholomew file," Neal said absently, holding out his left hand as he scribbled notes on a pad of paper with his right. The last of the day's sunlight, oblique through the windows, made him look gray and tired. Peter put it in his hand, but held onto it; Neal tugged, then looked up.

"You pulled a grab like this once," Peter said, tapping the file with his other hand. "You're familiar with Bartholomew's MO."

"Yeah, except when I did it to the Louvre, I -- " Neal broke off. "That's not an admission of guilt," he said hurriedly.

"Relax," Peter said. "I knew about the Louvre."

Neal gave him a nervous look as Peter released the file. "I know you know about a job _someone_ pulled at the Louvre."

"Ah. This old waltz," Peter said. Neal blinked at him. "You don't think this is getting tired?"

"I think this old waltz is keeping me out of prison," Neal pointed out. "I have a vested interest in not accidentally telling an FBI agent what I did or didn't do."

Peter reached into his coat pocket and took out the badge, laying it flat on the table.

"Seriously?" Neal asked, reaching out to run a finger along one of the seams in the leather.

"Aren't you tired of keeping secrets?" Peter asked him. "Tell me about the Louvre."

Neal stood and went to his wine rack, selecting something a good deal nicer than the cheap stuff Peter had brought last time.

"You want some?" he asked, and heard Peter behind him shift a little in his chair before he answered.

"Sure."

They didn't stay up the entire night, not like last time, but Neal told Peter about the time he'd robbed the Louvre, the way he'd stopped on his way out just to look at the Mona Lisa. It was the first time he'd ever seen it in person. He'd expected it to be small, and it was behind a layer of protective glass, high up on the wall, but he was still awestruck by it.

"It's not just that it's beautiful," he said to Peter, the wine maybe making his tongue a little loose. "Or the mystery about who she is. Was. It's part of _our_ history. It was just one painting out of a thousand at the Louvre, until it was stolen. Then it became special. Talk all you want about the law, but crime -- the right crime -- there's a beauty there too."

Peter watched him across the table. Finally, he nodded.

"Part of the reason I went into fraud, from my end, was because it was smart," he said. "It wasn't just putting together DNA and fingerprints. You had to learn how these guys worked, figure out what their angle was. It's always a challenge. Gets frustrating, but I like it."

"So what am I, your own personal Rubik's Cube?" Neal asked, grinning.

"Something like that," Peter agreed, standing and gathering up his wallet. "I should get home. Told Elizabeth I'd be back by midnight."

"Take a cab," Neal said.

"Yep. See you in the morning. Let's try and build his con for ourselves, see what he did that we're missing."

"I'll get the toy cars," Neal told him solemnly.

\---

The third time it happened, Elizabeth was at a trade convention in DC, and Mozzie was visiting "family" in Detroit. Neal figured better two lonely bastards drinking together than separately, so near the end of the day he leaned in the doorway and knocked on the jamb.

"Elizabeth's out of town, right?" he asked, and Peter nodded, looking up from his computer. "My place? Drinks?"

"Sure," Peter said. "Long as we can stop for something that isn't ninety dollars a bottle on the way."

"Long as you don't try to buy me something that's two dollars a bottle," Neal replied.

"You _have_ wine."

They bickered about alcohol all the way down to the car, and most of the way through the admittedly somewhat upscale liquor store Peter stopped at to get beer. They were still arguing about wine when they walked into June's house and found her emerging from the dining room.

"Neal!" she said, looking pleased. "And hello, Peter," she added, as Neal kissed her cheek in greeting. "Good to see you again."

"Likewise," Peter said.

"Your timing is excellent, I was about to call," she said to Neal, who cocked his head. "Chef's grilling steaks tonight and it always seems ridiculous to light a grill for one person. Won't you two come to dinner?"

Neal and Peter exchanged a look, and Peter hefted the paper bag with the beer in it. "Fortunately we brought a hostess gift," he said with a smile.

The steaks were excellent -- of course they were -- and Peter mostly listened as Neal and June discussed their day. It was in many ways the same kind of discussion he and Elizabeth would have had over dinner, if without quite the same level of intimacy. Neal seemed eager to catch up on all the latest gossip in June's circle of high-society friends, and June laughed at Neal's story about a takedown they'd pulled early that morning.

"I remember one time, Byron and I -- " June began, and then stopped and cast a friendly look at Peter. "Well. Perhaps that's a story more comfortably told without the presence of the law. Sorry, Peter dear."

Peter glanced at Neal, who gave him a small nod; he got up and went to his jacket where it hung on the wall next to Neal's, taking out his badge. Neal held out his hand and Peter slapped the badge into it as he passed back to his chair. Neal held it up, showing it to June, and then put it in his back pocket, secure.

"Oh?" June looked from one man to the other, curious. "Peter, that's..."

"Unexpected?" Peter drawled.

"Somewhat, yes. The last policeman I know with that kind of flexible mind ended up working for Byron after he quit the force," she said.

"I'm not quite that flexible," Peter said. "But we've found it -- "

" -- expedient," Neal put in. "Helps when I need to share certain sensitive information that's difficult to separate from the personal."

"Ah, I see," June said, nodding. "Well, in that case, Byron and I were working together on a scheme to defraud an insurance company -- he was quite the Robin Hood in his early days, and there were a lot of unscrupulous people who would prey on our little community..."

Neal, in return for a story of nearly-failed insurance fraud, regaled them both with the time he scaled one of the walls of Topkapı Palace in Istanbul, dangling from a decorative arch while security guards passed underneath. He could feel the weight of Peter's badge, heavy in his pocket, and the perhaps more pressing weight of Peter's attention on him as he spoke.

"Well, this has been lovely," June said, as the meal wound down. "Thank you both. And for the beer," she added, knocking the neck of her beer bottle against Peter's. Peter shot Neal a look -- _see, June likes it too_ \-- and followed him upstairs.

"Topkapı, huh?" Peter asked, as Neal opened -- surprisingly -- two more of the beer bottles, offering Peter one. "I remember that Interpol warrant."

"Now I really wish I'd sent postcards," Neal said, leaning against the counter. "Istanbul's gorgeous. Huge, full of people. All that history," he added, eyes going a little unfocused.

"Was that the only job you pulled in Istanbul?" Peter asked, settling into the couch. Neal came over and stretched out in a chair across from him, setting his bottle down on the table.

"The only one that mattered," he said. "After that I found this rich Australian who was yachting his way around the world, conned my way aboard as an art dealer and expert who could help him pick up a few trinkets for the folks back home. We sailed across the Sea of Marmara down into the Aegean, and up again to Thessaloniki."

"An art dealer, huh?" Peter asked. Neal shrugged.

"Well, and a companion." He tapped the side of the beer bottle, thoughtfully. "He was nice. Stupid, but nice. I'd have stuck around -- he was going to try for Cyprus next -- but I realized how close Italy was. I went over to Palermo, worked my way north."

Peter grinned. "Yeah, until Prato."

Neal groaned, letting his head fall back. "Prato was a mistake," he admitted.

"So?" Peter spread his hands. "Tell me about it."

\---

The fourth time it happened, Elizabeth was there; Neal had asked them to dinner, and after dinner between one thing and another she'd ended tangled up with Peter on the sofa like kids, legs across his lap, head on his shoulder, watching Neal reenact Peter's fistfight with a suspect. When Neal was finished he dropped down on the floor in front of the sofa, satisfied, and beamed up at them. Elizabeth leaned forward for a minute to ruffle his hair.

"Hey, not the hair," Neal laughed, reordering it with his fingers. "It's part of my asset kit, I can't afford to mess it up."

"Your asset kit," Peter snorted.

"Ask Mozzie sometime about the importance of hair," Neal replied. "Mario."

Elizabeth glanced at Peter, who had narrowed his eyes.

"I seem to recall a goatee somewhere in your past," he said to Neal.

"Don't even try to mock it, I rocked that goatee," Neal replied.

"Of course you did, honey," Elizabeth said, in her best _I'll support you even though you're wrong_ voice.

"What job was that?" Peter added, thoughtfully. "The Guggenheim?"

"Mm, no, NYMOMA," Neal answered. She saw him look up at Peter, questioning; then Peter was moving, trying not to dislodge her as he reached into his pocket, took out his badge and let it fall into Neal's outstretched hand. Neal put it on the coffee table. Peter had told her about these evenings, not in any detail but in broad strokes; she settled a little closer to her husband and waited for Neal to tell them a story. Peter, against and underneath her, was warm and relaxed; Neal's voice was soothing, almost hypnotic.

She found herself nuzzling Peter's neck, well-aware he was turned on, uncertain if it was all her or if Neal was a part of it. Uncertain she cared if he was. Peter, under the guise of shifting his arm around her shoulders, brushed his knuckles over her breast, right across her nipple. She made a soft little noise that Neal either ignored or didn't hear. Peter's other hand rested on her thigh, curled around the top of it, thumb rubbing slow circles on the inside of it.

They were, she thought, doing a pretty good job of managing to make out without being noticed, but then Neal got up to fetch the wine and refill their glasses. She saw him hesitate when he came back -- just for a split second, a little pause, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to tipsiness.

She glanced up at Peter and saw what Neal must have seen: his eyes were warm, pupils wide, lids just slightly lowered. Neal was already back, offering their glasses back to them, and Peter managed to brush his hand across her breasts again as he reached for his.

By the time they'd finished talking, gathered up their things and caught a cab outside of June's, Elizabeth was warm with anticipation and the probably slightly twisted pleasure of showing off her husband to Neal. She was willing to bet Neal hadn't known he wasn't the only man in the room with sex appeal.

At home, up the stairs, in their own bedroom, Peter kissed her and unbuttoned her blouse, tugging her bra strap down her arm, cupping her breast in one broad hand.

"I wanted him to see," he said, sounding surprised by himself.

"Why wouldn't you?" She kissed the line of his throat, hands busy at his belt buckle.

"But I didn't..." he paused to kiss her, pull her close and rub up against her hips. "I wasn't trying to be cruel."

"I know," she told him. "I think he liked it."

"Yeah?" he undid her bra, still kissing her, a skill he'd acquired before they'd met and impressed her with, their first time. It had also made her just the tiniest bit jealous, and maybe that was what Neal was feeling now.

"Bed," she ordered, and Peter picked her up and swung her onto it, while she laughed and pretended to struggle. When he straddled her thighs, gently pinning her wrists, she stopped and looked up at him, smiling.

"Would you like him to see this?" she asked, and Peter's chest hitched. "Maybe you'd like to see him -- "

Peter shut her up with a kiss, shifting his legs between hers, releasing her arms so he could lift her hips a little and slide into her with a long, growling moan. He didn't answer.

\---

The fifth time it happened was the anniversary of Kate's death, and Neal was already halfway to tanked when Peter showed up. He'd asked for the day off but hadn't asked for permission to leave his radius, to visit her grave; Peter would have given it to him, would have gone with him if he wanted. Instead, he didn't hear a thing from Neal all day, and wasn't sure that was a good thing. He'd checked his tracker; it looked like Neal had gone for a walk, spent some time in Central Park, and then gone home and stayed pretty still most of the afternoon.

So he called Elizabeth to say he might be home late, then stopped by June's place after work and knocked on Neal's door.

When Neal opened it, he looked okay; khakis and a t-shirt, his usual off-hours wear these days, and if there were dark smudges under his eyes, well. That was understandable.

"Peter," Neal said, warily. He slurred the t just slightly.

"Thought I'd check up on you," Peter said.

"Most people just say 'how are you'," Neal told him, but he stepped back and gestured for Peter to enter. There were two bottles of cheap wine on the table, one nearly empty; Neal didn't want to waste the good stuff on what was really just the hope that he'd pass out eventually and not dream about Kate.

Peter eyed the bottles, then went to the rack and got a nicer vintage out. "When'd you start drinking?"

"Bout two hours ago," Neal said.

"You eat anything?"

"Kind of missing the point," Neal replied. Peter rummaged in Neal's fridge and came up with some leftover Chinese food, dumping the noodles and veggies and pork onto a plate. He set it down in front of Neal at the table.

"Eat," he said, bringing the better wine and two glasses over with him. He poured for them, handed Neal a fork, and took his badge out of his pocket. "Tell me about Kate," he said, laying it aside.

"You know about Kate," Neal said quietly.

"I know what you two did together," Peter agreed. "I don't know what you two were together."

Neal woke up the next morning with a headache and a sour taste in his mouth. He wasn't sure what all he'd said to Peter, and he couldn't remember going to bed; the last clear memory was sitting on the sofa, staring at his glass of wine (about the millionth; Peter just kept refilling it when it was nearly empty) and admitting with the clarity of the very drunk that it was possible he'd mistaken youthful enthusiasm for lifelong passion. He had loved Kate, he _had_ \-- but after seven years apart it was hard to remember why.

He sat up in the bed, realizing he was in his boxers; his clothes were folded neatly over the back of a nearby chair. He was just processing this, because there was no way he folded his clothing that nicely while three sheets to the wind, when he heard a rustle and a soft grunt, and focused past the chair to the sofa. Peter's broad back was visible in a white t-shirt, head pillowed on one of the sofa cushions, feet poking out from under a blanket.

Neal slid out of bed and pulled pajamas and a robe on, finding his phone in the mess of clutter on the dining room table and stepping out onto the terrace to call Elizabeth.

"Mmfh?" she answered.

"It's Neal, did I wake you?" he asked.

"S'fine," she mumbled.

"I didn't want you to worry about Peter," Neal said, trying to figure out how to phrase this. "He's asleep on my sofa."

"Yeah, he called after he tucked you in, said he was staying," she said, sounding more coherent (and amused) by the second.

"I was wondering," Neal replied.

"Hung over?"

"Eh, not too bad. A lot of last night isn't very clear, though."

"I wouldn't worry. Peter knows you pretty well," she said.

"Yeah, guess so," Neal replied. Inside, Peter was stirring, sitting up. "I better go. I'll feed him before I send him home, promise."

Inside, Peter staggered towards the coffeemaker. Neal got their first and pulled it away from him; Peter gave him a glare.

"Sit," Neal said, filling the carafe. "I told Elizabeth I'd feed you before you left. You want pancakes or cereal?"

"Coffee," Peter said. Neal rolled his eyes.

"Okay, subhuman, give it a couple of minutes," Neal answered.

"Your sofa isn't as comfortable as Mozzie thinks it is," Peter said, rolling his shoulders.

"Mozzie's like, half the size you are," Neal pointed out. "Sorry. You should have taken the bed, not like I would have known the difference."

"You would this morning." Peter stretched his arms, muscles bunching and flexing against his shirt. "You look pretty chipper."

"I don't usually get hangovers," Neal answered, taking down two coffee mugs. "Hey, last night...I mean, thank you, but..."

"You didn't say anything incriminating," Peter said. "Well. Apart from the usual."

"Good."

"Did it help?"

Neal watched the coffee drip slowly into the carafe. "Yeah. I think so."

\---

The sixth time it happened was the time they found Neal in the hospital, fourteen hours after his tracker went dark and ten hours after the Met had been robbed. He'd been beaten badly -- a broken leg, a concussion, bruises blossoming purple all over his skin. He didn't regain consciousness for two days.

When he did, Peter was getting coffee from a vending machine. It was mostly keeping him going; he'd been doing shifts at the hospital between shifts at the office processing the Met robbery, and he was barely sleeping. He felt old and worn out and like a fool, because the only realistic scenario was that Neal had played him, and the only reason Neal had failed was that someone had obviously gotten to him after he'd gotten the painting.

He heard the yelling from down the hallway, and he left the coffee sitting in the machine and went running. Neal was awake and _very unhappy_ about it, cuffed to the rails of his hospital bed and struggling against the two cops from his protective detail. When he saw Peter, he doubled his efforts.

"Don't send me back, _please don't_ \-- " he said, pulling on his handcuffs, kicking his shackled leg, the other one in a fiberglass cast shoving at the blankets, trying to get purchase. "Peter, _please_ \-- "

"Let go of him," Peter said. The cops looked at him like he was nuts. "Let _go_."

They lifted their hands away; Neal kept struggling, and he was going to hurt himself if he wasn't careful.

"Neal, stop," Peter barked. Neal froze. Peter jerked his head at the door; the cops gave him a wary look, but they withdrew. Neal watched with wide, frightened, disoriented eyes as Peter approached the bed.

"It's me," he said quietly, soothingly. Neal tugged anxiously on the handcuffs. "Calm down, you'll hurt yourself."

"Don't send me back," Neal pleaded, struggling with the cuffs, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the chain.

"Nobody's sending you anywhere right now," Peter continued. "Just lie still, okay?"

"Where's Elizabeth?" Neal asked, seemingly at random.

"Eliz -- I think she's at work," Peter said, frowning. "Why?"

"Is she okay?" Neal seemed to need the answer urgently; it was overriding the obvious fear and confusion at waking up in cuffs. "Tell her I'm sorry, Peter, I'm so sorry -- "

"Why wouldn't she be okay?" Peter asked, even as he took out his phone.

"They took her," Neal whispered, and Peter's blood went cold. He dialed quickly, and the relief that flooded him when she answered almost put him off his feet.

"Hi hon, what's up?" she asked.

"Listen, this is going to sound nuts but I need you to lock the doors right now and close the office," he said.

"What? Why?"

"Neal's awake. He thinks someone's trying to take you."

"No -- _no_ ," Neal said. Peter held up a hand.

"Call the police and tell them I'm requesting a secure escort home for you. Give them my badge number," Peter said.

"Peter, no, you don't get it," Neal insisted. He managed to get free of one of the cuffs and lunged for the phone; Peter caught him and shoved him back.

"I'll call you back," he added, and hung up, wrestling Neal down on the bed. "Neal! _Stop it!_ "

Neal went limp, chest heaving. Peter let go slowly. He gently picked up Neal's wrist and re-cuffed it.

"Do not slip that," he ordered. "Now. Tell me why you think someone's after my wife."

Neal blinked at him. "They took her, they said they had her," he said.

"Nobody's kidnapped Elizabeth," Peter said. "Did someone tell you they had?"

"They showed me a picture, I thought..." Neal gave him a bewildered look. He didn't think he'd ever seen Neal that confused. "They didn't take her?"

"The night you robbed the Met?" Peter asked. Neal nodded, and Peter shook his head. "No. She was home all night. While I was out looking for you," he added.

He hoped it would calm him, but instead Neal looked more upset than before. "You have to believe me," he said urgently. "I thought they had her, they said they were going to hurt her."

"Why don't you tell me what happened," Peter said, putting a hand on his chest to hold him in place, because -- sure enough -- Neal started to twist again, trying to escape. "Neal, if you don't hold still they're going to sedate you."

"Please let me out of the cuffs, I promise I won't run," Neal bargained.

"I can't, buddy," Peter said. "You're a suspect in a major theft."

"I know," Neal moaned. "I'm _sorry._ "

"Just tell me what happened," Peter repeated. Neal shook his head. "Neal -- "

"You'd have to send me back to prison," Neal insisted. "It's not my fault."

Peter considered him -- sweaty, two days' worth of stubble, terrified out of his mind by something. He took his badge off his belt and pressed it into Neal's hand.

"What you say to me does not leave this room," he said quietly. "Neal, you know how this works. Just tell me what happened."

Neal's hand closed so tightly around the badge that his knuckles turned white. "Promise me," he said.

"I promise. You know I'm good for it," Peter said. Neal seemed to calm, a little.

"I robbed the Met," he whispered.

"We kinda figured," Peter said.

"They made me. They said they'd hurt Elizabeth," Neal said. "They said, don't you want to, and I did, I always do. But I wouldn't have, Peter, I swear I wouldn't but they said they'd hurt Elizabeth."

"Someone made you do this," Peter said, and for the first time in three days he didn't feel like his world had been tugged out from under him.

"I didn't see faces, they had masks," Neal said. "They showed me a picture of her, she had tape over her mouth."

"You're sure it was her?" Peter asked. Neal opened his mouth. He hesitated, then shook his head. "You're not sure."

"It looked like her. I don't know. I couldn't take that chance. They gave me the plans, they gave me security codes, they said -- they told me what to steal."

"What did they say, Neal?" Peter asked quietly.

"They said nobody was going to believe me, that either way I'd end up in prison, so I might as well -- " Neal inhaled sharply. "They said I wanted to."

Peter took his handcuff keys out of his pocket and unlocked Neal's right wrist, then his left. Both had vivid red marks where he'd tried to pull out of them.

"Nobody's sending you to prison because you were coerced," he said. "Whether you wanted to or not. I'm here, I'll protect you. Okay?"

Neal nodded, still wide-eyed.

"So you went in and stole what they asked. What happened next?" Peter asked, rubbing Neal's left wrist gently.

"I brought it out and they said great, and I -- I told them to let her go, they had to let Elizabeth go, and..." Neal trailed off uncertainly. "I don't...they had a car, and then..."

Peter could rebuild the rest, he thought; they'd thrown him in the car, beaten him and left him to die in an alley of exposure.

Neal closed his eyes. "My head hurts," he said.

"Yeah, they beat you up," Peter said. "Broken leg, knocked your head around pretty good. You've been out for two days."

"But you believe me?"

"I believe you," Peter assured him. "We'll catch them."

"I think I know who did it," Neal said, but his last few words were slurred.

"Can you give me a name?" Peter asked. Neal didn't answer. "Neal?"

No response, and after a minute or two a flurry of doctors and nurses came in, effectively crowding him out of the action. He took his badge out of Neal's unresisting hand and backed out of the room, watching Neal's bruised face until the door shut.

"Keep a guard on the room," he told the cops outside. "Don't put him back in cuffs, he's not going anywhere."

He called Elizabeth and tried to explain what he knew; she was justifiably angry that he'd scared her, angry that she was in the back of a police car, and furious that Neal had been terrified they were going to send him back to prison. He listened as she badgered the cops driving her home into taking her to the hospital instead.

"He's out again," he said.

"I don't care, I want to see him," she told him. "I knew he didn't do this."

"Well, he did do it -- but that's not the point," Peter said hastily, and went to buy her apology flowers from the hospital gift shop.

The next time Neal regained consciousness he was calmer, and Peter didn't want to risk the delicate equilibrium he'd found by pestering him into a statement. Elizabeth sat with him while he ate; Neal didn't seem to want to take his eyes off her. But when he was done, he pulled his leg up against his chest and curled into it, the broken one still lying on the hospital blankets.

"I have to give a statement," he said to Peter, who nodded. Elizabeth kissed Neal's cheek and patted his arm, then gave Peter a warning look as she left. "I think it was bankrolled by Caspar Smith," Neal said, when she was gone.

"The millionaire?" Peter asked.

"They had me steal The Path Through The Irises," Neal said. "Caspar Smith's tried to buy it from the museum before."

"The museum didn't tell me that."

"Who'd you speak to?" Neal asked.

"The curator of special works," Peter said.

"The one who manages the most valuable pieces? The insured ones?" Neal asked carefully. "You check his bank statements recently?"

Peter hadn't. He swore. "You think this was an inside job? Bribed by Smith?"

"They gave me codes," Neal said. "Everything from the dock door code to the security disarm. Someone had to be helping them on the inside."

By the time Neal was up and around on crutches, Peter had a warrant; the afternoon they discharged him, under Elizabeth's supervision, Peter raided Caspar Smith's mansion on the upper west side and recovered not only The Path Through The Irises but a couple of other paintings that Interpol would be very happy to return to several museums across Europe. They also found a photograph of a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman with tape over her mouth -- enough like Elizabeth that Neal could easily have been convinced. Peter carefully bagged the photo as evidence and then took five minutes to let the murderous rage subside before he did anything else.

Smith flipped on the guys he'd hired to force Neal into stealing the painting, even before he made it to interrogation. Peter sent Diana and Jones to round them up. He came home to find Neal asleep on his sofa, Satchmo asleep on Neal, and Elizabeth watching the television on mute.

"Hey, sweetie," he said quietly, kissing her as she came to greet him. "Look, no more cops on the front lawn."

"You caught him?" she asked.

"We caught 'em all. Painting's on its way back to the Met now. Neal's in the clear," he said, crossing to shake Neal's shoulder gently. Satchmo rumbled unhappily. "Neal, wake up."

Neal opened his eyes blearily. "Yuh?"

"Smith's under arrest. The rest of the guys are on their way to holding. You're clear."

Neal nodded and closed his eyes again; Peter thought he was falling back asleep until he tried to turn his body, face pressed into the pillow (one from their bed, Elizabeth must have brought it down), shoulders twisting as if he wanted to turn his back to them. Satchmo's weight and the cast on his leg wouldn't let him get very far. His shoulders shook and twitched.

Peter eased down on the edge of the sofa and rested a hand on Neal's head, turning it gently. Elizabeth sat on the floor, forehead pressed to Neal's, and Neal started to cry.

"Shh, baby, it's okay," she murmured, while Peter sat awkwardly and watched. "I'm okay. You're safe. Peter got them."

It didn't last long; maybe five minutes, until Neal reached up and pushed Satchmo over, sliding behind Peter to sit next to him. Peter pulled him against his shoulder and they just sat there, breathing.

"You're not going back," Peter said. "Ever."

It felt like a breaking point, like something was being left behind, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Neal nodded against his shoulder and then pulled away.

"You got anything to drink around here?" he asked, swiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, snuffling a little. But he gave them a smile -- a real, light-up-the-room Caffrey grin -- and then added, "And if you've seen my dignity anywhere, I'd like that back too."

"In this house we check our dignity at the door," Elizabeth told him, then kissed his forehead as she got up. "Fruit juice for you, and another happy pill, I think."

Neal nodded, accepting it like a child, and slumped against Peter again.

\---

The seventh time it happened -- lucky seven -- Neal's bruises had faded and he was out of the cast. He'd have said he was fine no matter what, but this time Peter believed him. He was less jumpy now, less inclined to text Elizabeth on the slightest excuse just to make sure she was okay. Peter kept an eye on him, watching for him to turn shy of the work, watching for little signs he was still reacting to the kidnapping, to the beating. He saw hesitation, sometimes, but Neal seemed like he was recovering.

He asked them to his place for dinner, both of them, and the food was good, and the wine was good. Peter was about to ask Neal what he wanted (because food this good, Neal usually wanted something) when Neal poured out more wine, set the bottle down, and held out his hand.

"I want your badge," he said. He'd never asked for it before, not outright. "I want immunity."

"From what?" Peter asked, digging his badge wallet out of his pocket. He held it up, rather than putting it in Neal's hand.

"Find out," Neal curled his fingers, a _gimme_ gesture. Peter tilted his head.

"Doesn't work like that," he said, and saw Neal frown. "This isn't a game, you know. Every time I do this, it's a risk."

"I know," Neal said. "You think it's not a risk for me?"

Peter considered that, then nodded. "Fair enough."

He pressed the badge into Neal's hand. Neal set it aside, then leaned across the narrow gap between himself and Elizabeth and kissed her. She made a soft, high, surprised noise, but she leaned into it too.

Peter saw Neal's eyes slide towards him; he rested his elbows on the table, curled his hands together, and propped his chin on them, watching. When he didn't move, didn't object, Neal broke the kiss and pulled back a little, just enough to rest his forehead against Elizabeth's.

"That went well," he said, and Elizabeth laughed. "I figured you were less likely to kill me if I did that without asking first."

"Honey, you have met me, right?" she asked, opening her eyes, raising an eyebrow. "I'm the dangerous one."

"In that case, can I kiss your husband?" Neal asked. She nodded. Neal darted a glance at Peter, but Peter didn't move; wasn't sure he could move. Neal stood up and circled Elizabeth's chair, long nimble fingers trailing across the back of her neck, and tugged Peter's wrists down, bending to kiss him, too.

"Now you see why I wanted immunity," he said against Peter's mouth. "Besides, pretty sure Agent Burke isn't allowed to do this."

"Pretty sure not," Peter agreed breathlessly.

"Want a confession?" Neal asked, pulling Peter up out of his chair. Elizabeth stood too, warm as she leaned in behind him, chin on his shoulder. "My bed sleeps three."

\---

There in the bed, a dark head of hair, a bare shoulder, one arm dangling over the edge, someone else's wrapped around a broad back. Knees and elbows, shoulderblades, the fall of light on Peter's cheek, Elizabeth's face under the covers. A little warm spot and a green glow through the blanket, Neal's ankle pressed against Elizabeth's foot.

Hung on the chair, Peter's holster, gun resting in the curve of the seat, Elizabeth's dress tossed on top of it. A mess of shoes and pants, belts, shirts, underwear, the strap of a bra slithering out from under one of Neal's hats. God knows where the ties are.

The dinner dishes in the sink, the remains of it cold in the pan. On the dining room table, two wineglasses, the bottle nearby nearly empty, and an empty bottle of beer as well. An FBI badge wallet, open, the first sunrise rays glinting on the gold. It's a ritual, laying down the badge, stepping into a private world where the rules don't matter. Peter likes his little rituals; Neal depends on the barrier the badge represents to keep them all safe.

It's not the seventh time, though. Or even the seventeenth. They've stopped counting.


End file.
